Lay Me Down To Sleep
by musicmuse04
Summary: To Desirae, they seemed like mere dreams, but they were not her own. One modern day girl must decipher dreams to repair a Romeo & Juliet love story over a century old.
1. 00 Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not OWN Newsies, or anything Disney related. All main characters I hold to myself, including Desirae Meyers, Ann Wilkins, and Lucas Patrick. If you want to claim ownership, contact me.

* * *

_Now I lay me down to sleep  
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,  
And should I die before I wake  
I pray the Lord my soul to take_

_Four posts around my bed,  
Four angels around my head,  
One to watch and one to pray  
And two to keep the Devil away _

* * *

"The last time I saw Spot, he was sitting under that one lone tree that grew by the docks in Brooklyn. His cap was drawn over his face, his legs crossed at the ankles, and his arms were folded across his chest. Whether he saw me or not, I don't know. But I kept on walking. The whole way I walked to the train station, I didn't look back. And I didn't go back to New York. Ever." 

"Alright, Desirae, you can wake up now."

Slowly, Desirae Meyers blinked her eyes open, looking around slightly confused. Then it hit her; Dr. Kingsley's office. She sat up from the lounge and ran her fingers through her hair. It had been her first session, and a strange one at that. No need to go into any detail, other than the fact that she'd had quite a few reservations about going, for fear her colleagues would think her crazy. She sighed with relief as the doctor's voice recorder click off.

"You did good today," she commented. "Have my secretary make you an appointment for next week. Preferably the same time.

Picking up her bag, she gave the doctor a small nod and headed out the thick white the door, thankful to have the session come to a close. End day one.


	2. 01 One Boat

_**One Boat**_

She had to be going crazy, she thought. Seeing a shrink for dreams? "Alright, Des, maybe you're not completely crazy yet. You still have enough common sense to do your job," she reminded herself, exiting the imposing brick building and whipping her blackberry out of her purse.

Five missed messages for one forty-five minute session with a shrink. Grumbling, she figured it out in her head that it came, on average, to one every nine minutes. The first was from her partner in crime, Ann, giving her the early morning office gossip. She'd been lucky enough to snag a morning appointment, which meant she wouldn't miss much work. The second and third were notes straight out of Page Six dealing with some of her clients. Fourth was her mom in Michigan, and last was her boss asking if she had found the location for the premiere of that new historical drama yet?

Desirae's fingers quickly worked their magic over the small piece of equipment, replying to Ann that she would pick up coffee, a quick note to her mom that she was doing fine, and one to her boss to let her know she was on the dreaded project. The truth of it was, she wanted nothing to do with this particular project, even though her celeb crush Carter Bonham was the star. She didn't want to touch anything about the event, because the historical time period of the movie coincided with the time period of her nightmarish dreams – turn of the century New York. She'd remembered once seeing a sign in her dream (if they could even be called dreams) that was dated 1899. That was her clue to the time period, and though to Desirae they seemed like mere dreams, they were not hers.

The girl who's life she was remembering (if that was indeed the case) was easily read. She was rash, and stubborn. She knew what she wanted, and went to any measures to get it once she knew what it was. Desirae, on the other hand, wasn't quite as boisterous or hot blooded. But she wasn't meek and mild either, and would go to great lengths to get what she deserved. That was where the one and only similarity in the two.

The dreams began haunting Desirae when she was just a junior in high school. First, they were little more than snippets, almost as if she was experiencing deja vu. But as she got a little older, the dreams became more and more vivid, more and more real. She had never been afraid of the dark once in her entire life until her Senior Prom. It had happened after a particularly strong dream, and her date had thought he could cop a quick feel in a dark closet.She had been expecting the knife that wasn't coming for her, praying silently with bated breath. His watch had caught light from a crack in between the door and doorjamb, and Desirae had lost it. She'd started beating him, begging him not to kill her, that it wasn't the wa y she was supposed to die. Two days later, she had to give his family the lame and poor excuse of being intoxicated. That had been her own experience though, not the girl's. And even after three years, the mysterious girl didn't have a name.

A year ago, Desirae had moved to the city to find an apartment in Brooklyn, working for a high profile public relations industry. Her job involved event planning, finding venues, obtaining donations for swag bags. It wasn't as glamorous as it sounded, but it was job, and it was fun...most of the time. She wouldn't have made it through the first year, however, without her other half Ann, who had started barely a month before her. The two had become fast friends, and on more than one occassion, Desirae had come close to telling her about the dreams.

* * *

The first day I ever laid eyes on Spot Conlon, I was running around the park with the Johnson children, making sure little Marcus didn't fall into the water, and that little Daisy didn't get any grass stains on her new yellow dress. He was watching us – watching me– make a complete and utter fool of myself trying to keep up with the troublesome boy. Daisy was content as ever to sit on a bench and sing to her dolly, so I let her, and ran after Marcus. I'd chased him behind a huge tree, and back around again, and finally to the bench his sister was currently occupying. Sitting next to her was Spot, who, at the time, was nameless to me. He was holding her doll in his hands, and she was coaching him on the right words to sing and the correct tune. Though it was a decent singing voice, I hoped it was something he wouldn't think of taking up as a profession.

"Daisy!" Marcus reprimanded, "Boy's aren't supposed to learn how to sing! They're supposed to do boy things!"

Spot looked up at Marcus with a smirk on his face (one that I would find out later was his trademark). "What kind of boys things?"

Marcus looked at the ground, his hands behind his back as I caught up to him, breathing heavily, looking bedraggled from falling one too many times with grass stains all over my new skirt. "I dunno. I'm only six."

"Well, I think boys make boats," I said, spying the stack of newspapers beside the young man on the bench next to my other charge. This was something I could do. I could help Marcus make a boat and we could float it in the river together. Hopefully it would keep him occupied.

"Oh yeah," Spot said, turning to the papers and taking one from the pile. "Do you mind?" he asked, looking directly at me. "I can show him how to do this probably better than you can, and you can probably sing better than me."

Yeah, right, I was going to leave a six year old whom I was a governess to in the care of a perfect stranger. "Yes, I do, actually. Daisy and I can help."

Spot smiled, eyes lighting up. "You got some good sense about'cha, even though ya can't keep up with the kid."

Plucking Daisy from the bench, I reached my hand out to Marcus to take it, silently beckoning him to follow me. "But Abby! I wanna play with him! I wanna make a boat! You're a girl, you can't make one, and he can, and I wanna make one now!" I felt a Johnson tantrum coming on, and sure enough, alligator tears were running down his cheeks in big fat raindrops. His arms were crossed over his chest in defiance, and he was stamping his feet. Soon enough, he'd be on the gound, kicking and screaming.

"Fine, one boat."

And one boat it was, keeping us busy the whole afternoon, during which I learned the young man's name, he learned mine, and he'd recalled the first time I'd taken the children to the park and not had any control over them. Daisy and I picked flowers for the boat, and we watched our creation float around the pond lazily that afternoon. Marcus was content, and I was ever so grateful to Spot for helping, even if only for that once for a couple of hours.

* * *

An odd buzzing noise woke Desirae from her sleep, causing her to jump up startled. Ann leaned her head into her friend's office and smirked. "Still not sleeping?"

Sighing, Desirae took a sip of her now cold coffee and grimaced. "No. Nightmares."

"Again? Isn't that why you're going to the shrink?"

Desirae gasped. She'd told no one other than her mother, who had been there for the dreams all along. "How'd you find out?"

"Your mom called. We have this partners in crime thing going on. According to her, I'm supposed to look after you out here. She worries way too much about you."

Desirae smiled, glad to have found a friend in this sleepless city. "Thank you."

"Alright, now let's get this movie thing taken care of. There's an old building that supposedly has something of some sort to do with the film. I don't know. But I've got fliers, and a number to call." Reluctantly, Desirae opened the brochures her friend gave her, and proceeded to sink knee deep into a project she didn't want.


	3. 02 High Street Memorial Museum

_**High Street Memorial Museum**_

They called it the "High Street Memorial Museum" but to Desirae, it was the stuff of nightmares, particularly hers. The building loomed immensely before her, daring her to enter. She had seen it somewhere before, tucked safely away in her memories. No, not _her_ memories – the other girls. 

Two days ago, she'd called the director of the movie to make sure the museum was indeed the filming location. She'd cringed when he'd confirmed her fears. Now here she stood, with Ann leading the way into the brick building. "Come on, Des, we don't have all day!" Ann called back to her friend, shielding the sun from her eyes. 

"I thought we did," Desirae mumbled as she took a shaky step forward. 

"First you can't sleep, now you're afraid of old buildings? Next thing I know you'll be telling me you can see dead people!"

"Oh yeah, I'm a regular Haley Joel Osment," Desirae joked, not really finding the statement funny. Sometimes she actually DID feel like she could see dead people – hypothetically speaking, of course. 

The museum's curator, Laura Conlon met them at the door. "Welcome, ladies, to the High Street Memorial Museum." If she'd been any friendlier, she would have already baked them cookies and would be enveloping the flabbergasted girls with hugs. It wasn't normal to find this kind of woman in the city.

"It's..." Ann searched for words to describe the old wood-worn building "...lovely."

"Well, we think so." The lady smiled and started walking deeper into the museum. "I take it you really want to have a look around. But first..." Laura stepped into what looked to be either a parlor or lobby. Whatever it was, the main event would be taking place there, Des decided. The lady continued as Des lost herself in planning. "You need to know it's history. Like in the film you young ladies are promoting, this place was, in fact, a newsboy lodging house. It was called the High Street Lodging House before it closed its doors in 1920. Yes, original, I know," she allowed as Ann muffled a giggle. "It sat dormant for many years, fading into the backdrop of the city. In 1931, it was taken over by a couple who had plans to turn it into a hotel. That would have been my great great grandfather and grandmother, Sean and Lucy. There are photos of them in the hallway, which we'll get to eventually.

Unfortunately, they never got a chance to renovate it, before Sean became ill and passed. Lucy never had the heart to finish it, and the building was then given to my great grandfather, Charlie. Charlie started renovating it, but became obsessed with the west coast and eventually boarded the building and left, continuing to pay the taxes, and never selling. I think he knew how important it had been to his father, so he passed it down to _his_ son, my grandpa Tony, who, with the help of my dad, actually renovated the building and instead of turning it into a hotel, it became this museum. When they started to renovate, they found evidence that Sean had lived here as a newsboy during the turn of the century, and when he'd come into money after becoming involved in the movie business, he'd bought the place. So my family is tied to it, in a lot of ways. And tied to both parts of the entertainment world."

After giving her family history, Laura must have gotten it into her head that the girls needed a proper tour, and who better to guide than herself? Desirae rolled her eyes as the lady turned her back and started for the stairs. So far, she'd planned the entire event from this room alone. No major ideas yet, but it was all going to be very old fashioned, which included drinks in mason jars, and maybe a popstar singing vaudeville as one of the main events.

The girls followed Laura, Desirae only finding her confidence after becoming lost in her own thoughts. When they reached the stairs, she took one look, one deep breath, and dared to venture deeper into the building. Her confidence was fading. Laura was chattering away happily, oblivious to any resistance, as they crested the stairs and were staring face to face with an old newspaper clipping, complete with photo. Staring back at her was the boy from Desirae's dreams, the cocky one who'd helped them build a newspaper boat. Oh who was she kidding, it wasn't _her_, it was that _other_ girl.

If Ann hadn't been behind her, Desirae would have fallen to her death by stairs. The headline in the clipping read "Children's Crusade – Newsies Stop The World!" In the haphazardly taken photo, in which there were at least twenty boys playing a game of Where's Waldo, three stood out the most. One, a tall, skinny boy with a smile plastered on his face, towering over the rest of them. There was a short Italian one next to him with a hat, who looked about ready to elbow the boy next to him in a plaid shirt supporting another with an eyepatch. The one in plaid was...what was his name again?

"Spot," Desirae whispered, shocked that the word fell off her lips so easily. 

"That would be my great grandpa Sean, I believe, dear, if this is who you're referring to?" Laura jabbed her finger in the face of the boy in the picture.

Desirae swallowed hard and looked to her right. All around where pictures of him. Pictures of him and his family, starting only with him. 

"This is the earliest photo we have of him. About ten years ago, a gentleman named Jacobs found the photo in his great great grandfather's things and sent it our way when he heard about the museum. Astonishing, really, that it wouldn't have faded after all these years. I guess it had been stuck in some school books that they were about to donate to the local library when this article fell out of the pages. Astonishing, but so delightful!"

Desirae was feeling a bit queasy with all of this new stimuli. It wasn't bad enough that the boy was in her dreams, now he was going to be in her every day life, staring at her through those piercing blue eyes. Blue eyes that had been passed down from generation to generation, Desirae realized sickly as she looked at Laura. "Are you alright, dear? You look a little peaked." No, actually, she wasn't okay. Her throat was dry, she was tired, and she was starting to feel a little woozy from all the information the lady was throwing around and the realization that her dreams, had in fact, been about real people. _OH GOD, REAL PEOPLE. I'M DREAMING REAL PEOPLE'S HISTORY. I'M LIVING SOME DEAD PERSON'S LIFE IN MY DREAMS_.

* * *

"Abby, dear, would you mind taking the children to market with you today? Mr. Robbins is ill." Mrs. Johnson poked her head into my tiny room as I was dressing my feet, a challenge that not only required effort, but concentration as well.

"Sure Mrs. Johnson. I'll be ready in ten minutes, and I'll be upstairs to get them ready," I answered, successfully hooking one button on my left shoe.

"No need, dear. I've had one of the housemaids get them in their jackets and shoes already. When you're ready..." Mrs. Johnson left me to finish, and true to my word, ten minutes later, the kids and I were out the door. One good thing about being a nanny to these children was that I had room and board and didn't have to pay a dime. It was almost as if I was like a child to the Johnson's, but yet, not. With no real curfew, all that was required was to keep the children occupied when their tutor wasn't there, but for the most part, the nights were mine, and early mornings as well. Lately, the children had been well behaved. Especially after that incident in the park with Spot. 

A flush crept onto my face as I remembered his eyes, and the way he'd swiftly taken over building of the boat. 

"Marcus, don't!" Daisy shrieked as her ever present doll was ripped from her hands by her not much older brother. 

"Only babies play with dolls," Marcus replied, stuffing the toy into my market basket haphazardly. "You're my sister, but you're not a baby. And I don't want to be seen with you and that ugly thing."

Before the alligator tears fell from Daisy's eyes, I retrieved the doll and handed it back to the girl. "I'm sure Marcus didn't mean it. He's just being a boy is all, and doesn't want us to bruise his ego. Although, he should be taking pride in the fact that he's the only boy among us girls and it's up to him to keep us protected this afternoon."

Upon hearing the statement, the four year old straightened up a little and puffed out his chest. "Right. I'm going to make sure no ugly mug makes advances on you two sweet young ladies."

A giggle escaped my lips and Daisy skipped a little ways ahead, still keeping within two feet of her now protective brother. Marcus took my hand as we passed a menacing looking mutt sleeping underneath someone's steps. Some protector he was!

A few minutes later, and we were at the market, browsing through ripe red tomatoes, and ordering two pounds of sugar snap peas for the upcoming dinner the Johnson's were hosting. "Abby, Abby, let's get a newspaper," Marcus pleaded as I argued the price of several loaves of bread that had yet to be baked and delivered. 

"Not now, Marcus," I replied, then turned back to the baker. A week ago, we'd agreed on two dollars for the bread, and now the loaves were magically two-fifteen. "You'll be hearing from Mr. Johnson about this," I warned the baker, subconsciously placing a hand on Marcus' head before he could wander off. Daisy still held his hand and was now singing lullabies to her doll. 

"Tell Mr. Johnson that when he decides to come barter for his prices instead of his little messenger girl, then we'll agree on a final price. Until then, I stay at two-fifteen."

Although I stood firm on two dollars, the bakery owner stood his ground, and I had no choice but to go home with the two-fifteen receipt and explain what had happened. That being our last stop, I took Marcus' hand, letting Daisy take his other, leading the way home. "Did you enjoy your trip to market, children?" I wondered when we were halfway home.

"Yeah, except we didn't get a newspaper," Marcus grumbled.

"What do you want a newspaper for anyway?" I wondered.

"I want you to teach me how to read. Mr. Robbins won't." Talk about getting right to the point. Here he was, four years old and had barely learned his letters yet, wanting to read.

"Why do you want to read now? You have the rest of your life to read," I answered as casually as I could.

"Because I want to read the newspaper like my dad." 

"Did I hear someone say newspaper?" A voice from behind us asked. We were being followed, and I had no clue. I was an awful nanny, really. 

"I did," Marcus stated, letting go of my hand and turning around. I followed suit and stood staring at Spot, who was handing my charge his last paper.

"Your wish is my command," he smiled at the boy. I had half a mind to kick him. How dare he follow us? If, in fact, he was even following us at all. He could have, actually, been walking somewhere and just chanced upon us. That was unlikely.

"Spot! You're like santa!" Daisy greeted, running to hug him. I closed my eyes. One day, and these kids had taken to him like a fish in water.

"Hey, Daisy. How ya doin' little dame?" he wondered, flicking her nose lightly.

"I'm fine. Abby is taking us home now, though. We just went to the market and got some fruit and some...uhm...veg..."

"Vegetables," I stated, offering her my hand to take. I passed Spot a nickel and took the little girl from his grasp. "Come on kids, let's get back home. Your mother will be wondering what took us so long."

"Aww, but can Spot come with us? I mean, can he walk home with us?" Marcus asked. Why, in the name of all things holy, had the kids taken to a street orphan who their parents would object to?

"No, Marcus, he can't come with us. I'm sure he understands." Inside, my gut was twisting. I felt awful for having to leave him like that, but he should have known better than to show up unexpectedly like he did. If he'd had some common sense, he would have waited for a better time, or place for that matter, to talk. I really wanted to talk to him, it just wasn't the right time, or place. My gaze was stony, completely opposite from the feeling I had on the inside. On the inside, I was warm and gushy, and tingly all over, just _seeing_ him there before me. But he was a newsie. For the children's sake, I couldn't do more than be civil to him. Even if civil was not quite the way the words escaped my mouth. 

I looked into his eyes for the first time. They were blue, I noted, like the blue of an icicle that hangs from the awnings of the church when the sun hits it just right in the wintertime. He was angry. His gaze hit mine with an even cold stare...one stonier than mine. His mouth was set in a thin line, and for a moment, I saw a spark of rebellion in those eyes of his. Was he going to object to leaving? Was he going to test me and my authority? I was just looking out for the children's best interest. I felt for certain he was going to take Marcus' hand and walk the little boy home, when he opened his mouth. "Sure. I understand. Maybe I'll see you later, Marcus. Daisy. Abby." For a fleeting moment, regret filled my eyes when he glanced at me. Who knew that understanding could rip a person's heart? Spot tipped his hat and turned around, going back in the direction which we came, thus ending a very brief encounter. 

"Abby, he has a _cane_! Can I have one?"

* * *

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." Desirae opened her eyes to find herself staring at a white ceiling, with two heads staring down at her. The two heads belonged to Ann and Laura, and it had been Ann, the outspoken one, who had called her from her dreams.

Desirae rubbed her eyes and sat up. Wrong move. The room started spinning, and those blue Conlon eyes glared at her menacingly. Frustrated, she laid back down on the well worn wooden floor, her head hitting with a light thunk.

"How'd you sleep?" Ann questioned lightly.

"Obviously on my back. It hurts," Desirae snarled to her friend. She'd passed out with exhaustion in a public place, her most humiliating moment thus far.

"Ooh, Caption Obvious," Ann chuckled, and stepped back to the railing, giving her friend space to breathe.

"You sort of...passed out after saying my great great grandfather's name," Laura explained.

"I'm sorry, but I'm fully aware of what happened." Wow, that was bitchy. Better tone it down a notch. "I mean, I know I passed out. I'm kind of under a lot of stress and have been fighting exhaustion for a while and it must have been an overload of information or something."

"You said his name in your sleep, too," the old woman prodded.

Though Desirae normally handled incidents like this – well, not like _this_, technically – rationally, and in a calm manner, she was losing it. She had never _fallen asleep_ or passed out in a public place and had been so humiliated in her life to go as far as to say the name of a boy she'd never met in her entire life. She wasn't Abby, and she sure as heck didn't know why she was dreaming things like that, someone's history, but she wasn't going to be doing it any longer. The first step on her personal agenda was to get out of this "memorial museum" and head straight back to her shrink's office. She wanted answers, and she wanted them _now_. The last and final step was to never set foot in this building again. Except for, maybe – and it was a _big_ maybe – the premiere. 

"I'm sorry," Desirae stated, sitting up and getting to her feet, "but I've got to get out of here. I've got other things I need to do this afternoon." She was out the door before Ann could object, leaving her friend to finalize the project.


End file.
